‘A short tour of Europe and then…America calls! We must spread the gospel in our own land.’
‘Have ye no’ spread it already?’ McLevy asked.
‘The seeds have been scattered. Now we must reap the harvest.’
Having divested himself of this arable metaphor and noted Doyle’s crestfallen air, Bannerman shook his mane of hair with added vigour.
‘Well, you must excuse me, gentlemen. Supper calls, and Miss Adler has a keen appetite which must be satisfied.’
For a moment there was the slightest hint of earthy satisfaction in his eyes and then he bounded up the hotel stairs without a backward glance, leaving a trace of the damp evening air like a spoor of sorts.
‘Did ye notice aught about Mister Bannerman?’ McLevy asked almost idly, while part of his senses concentrated on something else.
‘I noticed many things,’ replied Conan Doyle somewhat stiffly.
‘I’m talking about murder.’
Doyle thought for a moment, recalling the whole exchange in every detail.
‘The killing,’ he said slowly. ‘It hardly seemed to register with him.’
‘Uhuh. Most folk, even at second or third hand, are impacted by murder, even a medicinal ghoul like yourself, but Mister Bannerman sailed on past. Unaffected. As if he’d just wiped it off the slate.’
McLevy sniffed and seemed in no hurry to move.
‘What do you conclude?’ asked Doyle.
‘Some folk avoid death like the pestilence. Could be as simple as that.’
This cryptic statement made, McLevy began to go but Doyle had a question of his own which had been niggling at him for a length of time; but he was almost afraid of the answer and so had long delayed the query.
‘What Seth Moxey implied about Mistress Grierson. Do you believe it to have credence?’
‘Seth had no reason to lie. Silver Sam did. He was shielding her.’
McLevy took a last sniff.
‘It’s aye a mistake tae protect women. They’re perfectly capable of fending for themselves.’
By this time they were out in the street and both men fell silent for different reasons.
Conan Doyle because, if what the inspector said was true, then Mister Grant had performed a gallant act, though perhaps the circumstances were a little on the sordid side. Also it meant that Muriel Grierson was part of that seamy situation.
Being around the inspector seemed to provoke complexity of motive and behaviour. Nothing could be trusted but by God it was fascinating stuff.
McLevy meantime was processing the faint odour that Magnus Bannerman had left behind with the evening damp.
A pomade with a sweet smell, though so faded it was like an impression rather than reality.
But it might possibly match the aroma he remembered from the murder scene.
And Bannerman’s hair was dark in colour. That matched also. And long. You could even say wavy.
Nothing you might lay before a judge, and the faintest of indicators; most likely a figment of wishful imagination.
A straw in the wind.
But he began to whistle nevertheless as he and Big Arthur walked down the street together.
Who knows? This large lump beside him might yet be a lucky charm.
‘Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier.’
26
A strong nor-easter’s blowing, Bill;
Hark! Don’t ye hear it blow now!
Lord help ’em, how I pities them
Unhappy folks on shore now!
WILLIAM PITT, ‘
Lieutenant Roach was waiting like a lighthouse keeper when McLevy walked slowly into the station.
The inspector had much on his mind. Fragments of thought, half-remembered scraps of conversation, an odd nagging feeling that he had missed something somewhere, some connection. But his mind was cloudy, possibly to do with the fact that he had forgotten to eat since his breakfast cup of coffee. The inspector had been tempted to call in at his favourite tavern the Auld Ship for a bowl of sheep’s heid broth but denied himself the relief because he felt he had prevaricated long enough.
Accordingly he ignored his rumbling belly, bade goodbye to Conan Doyle, promising the great deductor that he would keep him in mind for future developments or if he ran out of inspiration, and trudged back to face the music.
The tune was not as expected.
Roach being often dragged to the opera by his culture fanatic of a wife, McLevy had braced himself for a full- blooded aria of remonstrance backed up by a wailing chorus of constables.
But no such thing.
In fact a wintry smile of sorts, which immediately alerted the inspector that something was lurking.
Something up the sleeve.
‘Well, well,’ Roach announced to the world at large. ‘The native returns. Wandering Willie.’
A reference to Willie Steenson, the blind fiddler who narrates the tale in
‘It aye amazes me how familiar you are wi’ the works of Wattie Scott, sir. I bow before such erudition.’
‘Sir Walter Scott paid his debts and did his bounden duty,’ replied Roach to the other’s sally. ‘Would that we all performed so.’
Out of the corner of his eye, McLevy saw Mulholland emerge from the direction of the cells and almost leap in the air at the sight of his inspector.
Was it a jump for joy? Or a guilty start?
‘I take it all the prisoners I sent are locked away safe and sound?’ he asked, trying to decipher the enigmatic smile on his lieutenant’s physiognomy.
Whatever was up the sleeve was tickling the bugger pink.
‘All safe and sound,’ replied Roach. ‘With a few additions.’
McLevy ignored the invitation to bite at that trailing hook. Mulholland had busied himself at the front desk with Sergeant Murdoch, which was an act suspicious in itself.
‘Ye didnae lodge Samuel Grant wi’ the Moxey gang, I trust?’
‘Not at all. Constable Mulholland and I, in consultation with Ballantyne, have arranged the cells to what I am sure will be your satisfaction.’
‘Full tae the brim, I’m sure,’ muttered McLevy.
‘Oh…always room for one more.’
Another hook unbitten.
‘Well, well,’ said Roach, almost hugging his thin arms about his immaculately uniformed self. ‘Have you made progress with the Morrison crime?’
‘Things are on the move,’ McLevy said, hoping he didn’t have to go into too much detail. ‘Shifting.’
‘I hope so,’ replied Roach. ‘Ballantyne!’
The lieutenant, having bawled out the name as if to draw the attention of everyone in the station, carried on
